Where They Rest
by MoonlightPhoenix3
Summary: An exploration of the idea that one of the past knights completed his service and stayed in Britain and his children grow up with the Sarmatian knights of the movie. Gawain/OC
1. Chapter 1

1.

Sometimes, you never leave a place. Sure, your heart can be roaming over green hills with the wind rushing past you, but your body is in a fort on a dreary island a thousand miles away. And after a while, you forget rolling hills and running free and you get tied to stone walls and spilling blood. You tie yourself to a woman that you love more than life and somehow, your love and her love make you both forget about wanting to be free. So you make a life in stone walls and bring children into the world who never know to dream about rolling hills and being free. And you forget to pity them because you just love them too much too care. And when little boys stolen from their homes come to you full of tears and longing for green hills, you have to teach them to live within stone walls. And you have to learn not to pity them for their loss.


	2. Chapter 2

2.

Her mother died when she was three, giving birth to her little brother Everett. Her older brother Kay held her as she cried and told her that their mother would always be with them in their hearts. She asked him never to leave her and Kay promised.

When her father died, Anira was ten. It had been a routine patrol with her father, Bedivere, Safir, and Lionel riding a sweep of the woods surrounding the fort. Several well-placed arrows made their way through the trees from Woad bows into his torso. Bedivere told her much later that it happened all the time and that her father hadn't suffered. But when you're ten and your whole world is your father and your brothers, everything seems to fall apart when one of those things is gone. She saw his body draped over his horse, like some bag of feed and felt the world becoming something a little darker. She's only ten so when she screams and cries and hides herself in the stables, the adults understand and leave her to her grief.

Her brothers are not so forgiving. Kay is twelve, Everett is seven, and the other Sarmatian boys range in age from nine to sixteen but they all drag her out of the stables to the tavern. Percival, the eldest, had charmed the bar-maids into keeping their glasses full. The youngest, Galahad, tells her silly stories and tries to do some acrobatic tricks he had seen a cousin do. He fails so horribly that it's even funnier than anything he might have said before. Bors, twelve, tells dirty stories till some red-headed slip of a girl smacks him in the back of the head and berates him for talking so around ladies. Her name is Vanora and she never gets too far from their table after that. Handsome Mordred, fifteen, flirts with her till she turns pink and dark-eyed Lancelot, eleven, teases her for it.

Later in the night, when Everett remembers why they are drinking and trading stories and laughing till their sides hurt, he begins to cry. It's gloomy Gawain who hugs her little brother and says, "It's alright. We're your family now."

Somehow, going from only two brothers to ten makes her feel better. They bully and tease. They flirt and cajole smiles from her whenever she looks sad. They protect her and she helps them train to be great knights.

Her new goal is to be useful, so she never has to feel like the little girl that crawled into the stables to hide.

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_Disclaimer: Only Anira and Everett belong to me. _


	3. Chapter 3

3.

She understands that all men die, that it is the natural order of things. She also understands that her brothers, both the real and the adopted, are trained to be soldiers, to go out and fight. These are things she knows but never really connects to her own experience until one day just after her fourteenth birthday.

Safir has told the sixteen year old boys that it's time for them to join him and Bedivere in the field after Lionel's death. Percival and Mordred have already been riding patrols and killing Woads for years, but now it's time for Dagonet, Bors, Tristan, and Kay to join them. She could really care less about Bors, Tristan seems to need the excitement, and Dagonet was born for battle, but the thought of Kay riding off into danger every day calls back bad memories for Anira.

She's saddling Shy for Mordred like usual when Kay comes in, looking like a small copy of her father in his armor. She wants to explode, scream at him and beat him bloody so he can't ride out those gates. Instead, she helps him buckle on his sword belt and asks him to be careful with father's horse, Fury. She does her best to hold back her tears as she hands Shy's rains to Mordred, who doesn't seem to see her these days but still pats her on the shoulder in reassurance.

Dagonet sees the tears about to fall when she hands him the halter for his horse. He takes her face in his hands for a moment and says, "Don't worry. We'll take care of each other."

They mount up and ride off, looking handsome and brave and she feels pride for her brother for the first time. Or at least, pride replaces fear for now.

Lancelot, Gawain, Galahad, and Everett all join her at the stable door, dusting themselves off from their own parts in readying the other knights. She notices that Everett is looking proudly at where Kay has just gone and she feels a pang in her heart for the time when the boys around her will follow the same path.

Lancelot seems to be reading her mind when he slings an arm across her shoulders and mutters, "Don't be sad, Anira. Maybe the new commander will let you come with me and Gawain when the time comes. You know as much about soldiering as we do."

"And you're better with a bow than Gawain," Galahad mutters, which earns him a punch in the shoulder.

"No Roman is ever going to let a girl out in the field," Gawain scoffs. She turns towards him and notices for the first time the blueness of his eyes and the tawny scruff growing on his chin. He and Lancelot are fifteen, only a year from fighting the Woads if the pattern holds. Somehow, they got handsome and somehow they are closer to riding off into danger.

She would feel more sorrow if Gawain hadn't turned on his smarmy smile and said sweetly, "Promise you won't cry for me when it's my turn, Anira, my love."

Hot anger rolls through her as a blush comes to her cheeks. "I will never cry for you, Gawain."


	4. Chapter 4

4.

Everett is shaking as she helps him slide on the gauntlets. He's fifteen and his eyes are huge and afraid for what's to come. It's his first mission and Anira doesn't know how to reassure him when she's just as scared. Mordred disappeared almost a year ago, lost to the wilderness and the Woads, Shy returning to the fort minus his rider. Percival died last month, twenty four and still sweet faced. She had cried for the loss of both of them when they burned Percival's body, but those tears could not match the ones she cried when Kay told her that Everett was joining them on the mission to clear the villagers from a hamlet north of the wall.

The commander, Arthur, had avoided her successfully for two days before she caught him walking along the top of the wall. Though she was eighteen, she wasn't above screaming at the Roman till her voice got hoarse. He apologized over and over again and he looked so genuinely sorry that she almost left him there. But her little brother was going off to face death at the hands of vicious natives and that drove her onwards. She remembered slamming her forearm into the side of his head and getting off a few solid slaps before arms pulled her back and held her close. Lancelot checked Arthur's face, which she was sad to notice she had not bruised, while she felt her captor chuckle.

Whiskers tickled her neck as Gawain chided, "Now, now. Violence solves nothing."

Wrenching her arms free, she ran away, noticing for the first time that she had been crying. She would have run to the stable to throw her arms around Fury and find solace in the warm strength of the horse had she not slipped on the cobblestones underfoot and tripped on her long coarse skirt. Sitting up, she brushes the dirt from her face and tries to stand. Dampness on her leg alerts her to the long slice that one of the slate stones caused and she begins the limp back to her room.

She hears the footsteps pounding behind her and the man out of breath that seems to have caught up to her, but she does not look back to see who that might be. He doesn't give her long to limp in silence.

"You bleeding?" Gawain asks and she flashes him the slice up her thigh, but keeps walking.

"Let me help you."

"No."

"Anira, just let me bind it up, you don't have to actually talk to me." She looks at him then, seeing the real concern in those blue eyes that still seem to make her burn somehow. She's exhausted so the decision to reach for him comes out of nowhere and somehow him picking her up astonishes her in the same way.

He takes her to the stable and uses the bandages he keeps in his saddlebag while she wipes her tears and watches him. Seated on a bale of hay with him crouched in front of her, she studies the way his hair is now long enough for sloppy Sarmatian braids and how his beard now covers his whole jaw. The other women talk constantly about his good looks but she doesn't think of him as handsome until he looks up at her and says, "It's going to be alright."

And when she's helped her little brother onto his horse and sees Gawain mounting his speckled stallion Rill, she smiles at him. And when he mouths it to her again before they ride out, the heat that fills her then is something new and wonderful.


	5. Chapter 5

5.

It was winter and freezing and there was nothing to do except tease each other. The snow was falling fast and thick, preventing patrols and making the fort unbearable. The knights are restless and Safir is dying, a vicious cold seeping into old bones and holding on tight. He's only 32 and dying and the younger knights are doing their best to ignore it by being vital and alive. Vanora doesn't help the situation by getting with child. Again.

Bors, always proud as a strutting rooster, is so puffed up and gleeful that it's sickening in a way. The other knights solve the problem by ignoring him but Anira can't get away from Vanora's pride. Vanora glows and gushes and holds her belly with such an untapped joy that Anira can't find it in her heart to tell the girl to stuff her happiness.

Bedivere can see her unhappiness and how the cold weather is making her tetchy. "Take a lover into your bed," he suggests one night as they share dinner in the tavern. "That would keep you warm and pleasant enough."

She wishes that the older man hadn't brought it up but it seems like the most logical thing these days. Stuck inside and going stir crazy, there are only so many times she can groom the horses or practice her archery before she screams.

"No doubt one of these young bucks would have you," Bedivere says, waving his hand at the knights engaged in a dagger throwing competition at the other end of the courtyard. She watches them for a moment before Bedivere adds, "Didn't you have a tryst with Dagonet a bit back?"

She cannot stop the blush that rushes to color her cheeks so she cannot blame his laughter. Her literal role in the hay with Dagonet had brought her very little save embarrassment and a moderately strained relationship with her older brother. Instead of yelling at his best friend, Kay had screamed at his sister about her loose morals until she had screamed right back at him. They had drawn a small crowd and only parted after Everett pushed them apart. She and Dagonet had agreed it meant nothing and they were still friends, but Kay treated her less like a friend and more like an obligation as the days went on. The other young knights had teased a bit, but continued dower looks from Kay shut them up pretty quickly on the matter. Kay had even taken to guarding his little sister a little more closely, cutting off the easy interactions she had loved for so long.

She shakes her head at Bedivere, feeling he should already know why she is so lonely these days. "And have Kay go off ruining his friendships with his brothers in battle? I think not. I'm fine, Bedivere." Which is a lie, because she misses having brothers and being one of the boys. She cannot tell when the moment was that they realized she was female and therefore not really a viable playmate, but she knows that the situation with Dagonet was simply the final nail in the coffin.

Bedivere snaps her out of her self-loathing with, "Kay's taken a lover. Andrivete." He indicates the dark-haired woman daintily drinking from Kay's tankard. He then points to the tiny blonde girl hanging onto Everett as he eats and adds, "And little Elaine is sharing your younger brother's bed."

"Who would have me, Bedivere?" She asks sharply and the profound sorrow in his eyes as he looks on her is enough to make her cry then and there.

"I'm sorry, lass," he says as he strokes her hand and she notes how similar their hands look. His have years of battle written into them, hers hard labor and frequent practice with weapons too big for her. "If I had a daughter, I think she'd be like you," he mutters. "I only want what is best for you and I don't know how to get that for you."

"I think what's best for Anira now is a dance," Galahad interjects, and she looks up to see those huge brown eyes twinkling at her. She looks back to see folk pulling out their instruments and starting a lively dance. Before she can answer for herself, Galahad drags her from her seat to Bedivere's laughter and twirls her about.

She hates dancing. She's just not coordinated enough and she always feels like a joke, but right now, Galahad's smile is enough to keep her going through the steps. For a brief moment, when he spins her along his arm, she considers bedding Galahad, but he reminds her too much of Everett to be taken seriously.

They dance for what seems like ages. Even when her feet go in the wrong place, she just laughs and laughs until she can get it again. She switches partners, dancing with Lancelot and his twinkling eyes and then Bors with his strong hands. She dances with Kay and they laugh together for the first time in months.

She's missed a step and she gets flung from the circle of dancers but the way her heart is pounding makes her giddy. It makes her bold. And when she sees Gawain sitting on the sidelines, smoking his pipe coolly, she pounces.

"Dance with me," she breathes, pulling the pipe from his hand and grabbing onto his collar.

"It'd be like dancing with a horse," he remarks, and usually, she would reel off a witty retort, but her blood is pumping too fast. Even dancing badly is the most fun she's had in too long and sour Gawain will not spoil her fun.

Both hands around his collar, she pulls his face close to hers and whispers, "It's your loss. Second best way to get warm with me these days." And she must be mad from the dancing or the cold or it may just be the way that his eyes are so very blue this close up, but she takes one look at his lips and kisses him. And like dancing, her blood is pumping too fast, and she spins away laughing and not caring.

And joining the circle of dancers again, she dances and starts to love it. Loves pounding her boots on the dirt and spinning until strong arms catch her and whirl her off in another direction. She links hands with the other women and they dance in a ring, surrounded by men who will sleep in their beds later tonight and she doesn't care that she is the only one who will sleep alone. The circle breaks and she spins outwards, her treacherous clumsy feet stumbling and so she falls. She remembers that she has no partner to catch her, but she honestly doesn't care.

So it's a surprise when it's Gawain's arms she falls into and he swings her back into the dance and she feels perfect. All of her steps are right and he's smiling like a cat with a dish of cream and she feels wonderful.

The music ends with a flourish as the ladies whirl back into their partner's arms and when she stumbles this time, she thuds into his chest and holds on lest she fall. He holds her tight and she looks up into those very blue eyes and that wicked smile and his voice sounds like pounding rain when he asks, "What's the first best way to get warm with you these days?"

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_[If you're reading this, I'd like some feedback. Just would be nice, thanks.]_


	6. Chapter 6

6.

She doesn't sing very well, which is why she doesn't do it often, but standing next to her brothers for Bedivere's funeral, her voice seems to have a mind of its own. She doesn't cry, just lifts her head and starts to sing a lullaby she heard ages ago about the mountains of home. Her voice cracks and breaks but she keeps on going. Bedivere was old and he died so peacefully that he doesn't really deserve tears. A few tears leak from the corners of her eyes, but there is something so joyful about singing for him now. He used to catch her humming snippets to the horses and he would always tell her not to be afraid of her own abilities.

She's never very afraid these days. She plays with Vanora's children and is learning how to be a mother. She cleans the knights' weapons with their new steward, Jols, and teaches him about all the horses. She kisses Gawain to steal the stoic expression from his face and to get him to chase her. She plays drinking games with her brothers and throws knives with Tristan when it seems like a good idea, even though it never is. She is free with her laughter for the first time since her father died.

So she is free with her voice here at Bedivere's funeral. Vanora has the lovely voice, but she doesn't care at the moment. She closes her eyes and starts the song that she remembers her father singing at her mother's funeral. From the gasp next to her, Kay remembers it too and it only takes a second for him to join in.

"_Though you rest here all alone,  
__Foreign earth from where you've grown  
__In my heart, I'll take you home.  
__Past our prison, walls of stone  
__To a world I've never known  
__In my heart, I'll take you home."_

The silence is a living thing when she finishes the song, like the people assembled have been holding their breath for fear of disturbing her. She wipes strange tears from her eyes and feels an odd rush of pride as Arthur lights the pyre for Bedivere. He was a great man and somehow there is no shame in this death. Across the flames, she can see Gawain, his brows drawn as he looks into the fire. He's thinking about death and worrying and she wants to tell him that everything will be alright.

She gets her chance as the people start to disperse. Everett and Galahad are talking about drinks and Gawain barely notices as she slips her arm into his. For a moment, he doesn't recognize her even though he's staring right at her, but then his eyes soften and he gives her the smallest fraction of a smile and he says, "You sing so wonderfully, dear heart."


	7. Chapter 7

7.

Loving Gawain was the best choice she could have made. It makes her brighter and lighter and better somehow. Even though the winter winds blow outside, it is summer in her heart as she curls herself around Gawain.

Unfortunately, the fire is going out and there is drunken screaming coming from down the hall. Either Bors has just made it back to his room and is accosting Dagonet for leaving him at the tavern or some Roman soldier has found his mistress in Lancelot's bed. Neither of the outside situations disturbs her calm but the fire going out does mean that she will have to stoke it. Making sure her stockings are pulled up, she slithers out of bed and creeps over to the fireplace. Thankfully there is enough kindling, but the poker has gone missing somehow.

Glancing around the dim room, she spots Gawain's dagger on the small table and snatches it up. Carefully laying out the kindling and tending the little fire, she doesn't hear when Gawain rolls over and groans. If she had been looking, she would have seen him groping blindly around the bed for her and heard the second groan.

His voice is questioning and somehow a little forlorn, like he thinks her a dream, when he says, "Anira?"

This does get her attention and she replies simply, "Stoking the fire. It's cold."

"It's colder here without you," he grumbles and she suppresses a giggle as he demands, "Come back to bed."

She can hear him fidgeting under the covers now and when she turns back to the bed, he's pouting. "Stop that," she admonishes. "You hardly look like a terrifying Sarmatian knight."

"I'm not terrifying," he whines, "I'm cold and lonely. Get back in bed." She laughs, knowing that she'd never see this childish and silly Gawain anywhere other than his room but feeling special for seeing it now.

She crawls back under the covers and realizes just how cold it had been in his room when her icy skin touches his. He hisses at her cold fingers finding their way under his shirt but pulls her closer to his warmth. His scraggly beard tickles her forehead as she nuzzles into his chest and she can't help but giggle. Here is warmth and bliss in Gawain's arms, like nothing she has ever known before.


	8. Chapter 8

8.

Loving Gawain has made her weak. Loving him has made her priorities wrong, or at least, that's what she tells herself as they lower Everett's body into the pit and Arthur holds up the torch for the funeral pyre.

It had been the best year of her life until one morning they rode out as usual and then that evening, rode back into the fort with one less horse. Where was Shy? It was strange not to see the stallion dancing about the courtyard until Everett could calm him.

And then it hit her that none of the knights rode with a passenger except for Kay. And his was a covered lump slung across the back of his saddle.

She noticed that Arthur had dismounted and was walking towards her. She noticed that Dagonet and Galahad avoided her eyes and that Bors was whispering heatedly with Vanora. Gawain was staring at her, but all she could focus on now was Kay and Tristan removing the thing slung across his saddle. And when it hit the flagstones, she can feel the scream building in the back of her throat. Everything in her is numb, everything is ice, until Tristan unwraps the horse blanket and she sees her precious little brother with a huge gaping wound in his stomach.

Her screaming had startled the horses and she felt like she had screamed until Kay dragged her from the courtyard. All she can think about is Everett and how just this morning he had been so cheerfully talking about marrying Elaine. She couldn't face the girl, who had taken the news with much better tact than Anira.

None of her friends could look at her, not even at the funeral as they laid their youngest comrade in the ground. Not even Gawain looks at her and she stares him down, her eyes raw from crying.

Arthur holds the torch out to Kay, who takes it without much thought. She can feel his hand on her shoulder, his eyes on her face but she turns away. She cannot watch this. She starts walking when she hears the wood catch fire and she walks through the fort without direction or purpose. She doesn't want to talk to anyone, she can't visit the horses, she can't drink at the tavern. She wants to walk up to the top of the fort and sit in the chilling wind till she freezes solid, but she hears a voice call her name.

And when she turns around, it's Gawain, looking concerned. Loving him has made her weak. She can't find any solace in those blue eyes, even if they do look so sad.

When she speaks, her voice is foreign to her own ears. "What happened?"

He looks taken aback for a moment before he says, "Woads. One of them had a huge maul and pulled Everett off of Shy. He was too far away from the rest of us. By the time we got there, he was gone."

"The woad or my brother?" She wants her words to hurt him and he looks it.

He swallows, like the words choke him and she flinches. "Everett. Bors got the Woad. Ripped his jaw." His eyes glaze over for a moment and she can practically see the moment replaying in his mind.

This time the question is different. "What happened?"

"It could have happened to any of us, Anira. We're knights, we fight." The rationality in his voice is too hard to comprehend.

"He was seventeen. He was so young."

Something about that statement makes him snap. "Galahad's nineteen. Would you be crying so hard for him if he were gone? What about me? I'm twenty-two. Would you be this much of a mess if it was me they brought home?"

Any other time, she would have said yes. Any other man and there would be no question. But they just put her baby brother into the ground and it makes her hard and cold and she doesn't answer him.

And he's hard and cold too when he says, "Anira, I could have died today. I could die any time I ride out there. But knowing that you care makes it easier to come back. I'm still here, even if he's gone."

She can hear that small tinge of desperation in his voice. And even though she loves him so much that it makes her heart feel like bursting, right now, her heart is broken and she doesn't think when she says, "But he's still gone."

He walks away. She thought she knew pain, she thought it had already shown her how life was to be. She thought that her heart was broken and it couldn't get worse. But it did.

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_Please review?_


	9. Chapter 9

9.

She throws herself into menial tasks. Everything seems a bit duller now that Everett is gone and she can't seem to focus anymore. The blacksmith, Yorn, puts her to maintaining his bellows because she can work out her frustration at the pump. She can work until her hands are raw and she doesn't care that she's a dusty mess at the end of a day.

She's moved back to her old room. She avoids Gawain because her pride is stuck in her throat and looking at him hurts too much. She's a giant ball of anger and volatile emotions and only Kay can break through. Kay treats her like a little child, bringing her food and speaking to her slowly. She doesn't have a purpose any more.

Yorn puts her to chopping wood one day and she finds that she loves swinging the axe. It makes her arms burn and her back scream but she falls into bed and is so tired that she doesn't get a chance to miss Gawain's arms. She could chop wood all day if someone didn't drag her away for food.

None of the knights will talk to her. Not that she really wants to spend time with her, but it registers as she swallows her soup and watches them one night. Arthur pities her and she can feel it rolling off of him in waves. Lancelot seems to be waiting for the right moment to joke and poke her into a better mood but it never seems to come. Bors treats her like one of his children, alternately ignoring her and shepherding her to safety. Dagonet is like Kay, consoling gently in his own way. Galahad looks after her with a sad lack of understanding, like a child told he isn't allowed to play with a favorite toy because it's far too dirty. He seems to legitimately not understand her grief. Tristan never really talked to her before so that isn't any different.

And Gawain. Gawain never even looks at her any more. He walks past her like she is nothing and she just wants to dissipate into the landscape like the native fog. She burns like the forge when it happens. She wants to scream at him and hit him till her hands split open. She cries sometimes until she can't breathe, and Kay will hold her and tell her everything will be alright, but she keeps crying because Gawain hates her.

She doesn't have much of a purpose until the day Tristan drops a rabbit in front of her as she eats her breakfast. It's freshly dead, neck broken and brought in by his hawk. She glares at him as she swallows her porridge and he shrugs in that way that is so very him.

"We're called out on patrol and I don't have time to skin it," he explains. Half the time she wants to punch Tristan because nothing ever matters to him. She looks down at the rabbit and feels the anger building up inside her. Today is the kind of day she could scream at Tristan until she passes out, but he holds out his thin skinning knife to her. His voice is more tender than she has ever heard when he says, "You're so good at it."

It's like a spark in her heart. He's gone before she can say anything so she pushes her bowl away and stares at the rabbit. Dressing a rabbit isn't hard but it takes focus and precision. She starts slow. She takes the whole thing slow. She doesn't pay attention to anything else, though she hears Vanora's children playing in the yard behind her and every other typical noise of the morning routine in the fort. She just works until she's done. She sets out all the pieces in front of her: the head, the pile of innards, the cleaned carcass, the pelt. Her hands are covered in blood but it's the knife she wipes clean.

This is what life becomes. You can parcel it out and find what is useful, even in death. She runs a finger down the pelt, leaving a little red trail across the grey fur.

"Good job," comes Tristan's gruff voice and she stares at him, realizing now just how long this little chore tooks her. How little she really thought as she separated the skin from the muscle. "Don't ruin the pelt. Wash your hands." He picks up the carcass and the pelt and stalks off.

Vanora tells her later that she took three hours. Over the next week, Tristan brings her a rabbit and she works until she can do it properly in a few minutes. Next, Jols starts her on fletching arrows and she fills her fingers with splinters creating the perfect quiver. Little tasks that require perfection and focus keep her from fits of screaming. Somehow, she gets back to being a normal person and she can even have conversations with people other than Kay again. Lancelot finds his moment and cajoles her into her first smile in months. She smiles and feels some of the weight lift off her chest. Kay hugs her and she takes comfort in being held. And then she feels the white hot pain in her heart when she realizes that Gawain will not hold her even if she asks.

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_Let me know if there are any things that are unclear in this chapter as I do not have my usual word-processor. I would enjoy reviews._

_By the way, I have a clear plan for what's going to happen in this story. I promise that even if I do not update often, I will finish this story._


	10. Chapter 10

10.

She should have seen this coming. It isn't coming out of nowhere. He's an old horse. It's his time. But Anira is still sad to see Fury's eyes close and walking away from him feels like losing another friend.

He's so old. None of the knights will ride him on patrol and he'd even been retired from pulling carts or plows. It's not as much of a surprise when he lays down, but Kay still fetches her to the stables like she can do something. He's so worried, but she just pats his shoulder and settles down next to the massive black head. She gets more comfort staring into those black eyes than she should and she shirks her duties for Yorn and Jols but Fury is like family. She may have been born in this land, but she is a Sarmatian horse girl in her heart and the others seem to understand that.

Vanora brings her bread and cheese, Dagonet brings her wine. Galahad even joins her vigil for a while, at least until his nerves get to him. He gets spooked by watching a horse slowly die and he doesn't have to explain that to her in words as he leaves. Others stop by but no one stays long. She only sleeps for a few minutes that night, slumped against the stable wall and one hand against his back. When she wakes up, there's a tingle down her spine from eyes on her. She looks up and sees Gawain above her, leaned against the railing.

He's assessing Fury, those well trained eyes checking every inch of horseflesh. "He won't last long," he says and it's the first thing he's said to her in months. His voice still makes her tingle somehow and her heart does a flip flop. She doesn't know how long he was there before but he doesn't stay long after she wakes. He leaves without looking at her, but he says, "Get some sleep when all this is over. You look tired."

Fury dies before the sun rises. The knights show up early to check on him and she leaves them to the burial process. She strokes his mane, wipes away her tears, and goes back to her room. She doesn't sleep well for days because she dreams about Gawain watching her. She dreams about Gawain and what she's missing by not being in his bed and the sphere of his smile. It makes her a little cranky but she tries to move past it. By now, after so long of being invisible, Anira has to accept that Gawain cannot love her. And accepting this makes the days a little bit easier.

Exactly two days after they finish burying Fury, Arthur and his knights bring her brother back into the fort tied to his own horse. He's bleeding badly from a stab wound to the belly and the blood pours out onto her hands but Kay makes it back to the fort to have the decency to die in her arms. He holds onto her and tells her that everything will be alright but she can see the blood draining from his face and the light fading from his eyes. She kisses his cheeks and begs him not to go. She reminds him of his long ago promise and begs and begs until she is holding the dead body that used to be her dear sweet Kay.

Her skirt is soaked through with his blood. It coats her hands where she has wrapped them around his waist. Her tears soak into his tunic. She holds him tightly and wishes they could just bury her with him. She would have held on forever if several hands hadn't pried her away. She doesn't register who at first, just that they are pulling her from Kay. She needs to be with Kay. She jumps and arms catch her about the waist and hold her close. Strong but kind hands hold her wrists steady and her eyes focus on Lancelot.

"Please," she cries out and her knees buckle. The person behind her holds her up as she grapples with Lancelot. "Please, I need him. He's my brother. He promised. I need Kay." She watches as each of her words is a dagger of pain to Lancelot.

He shakes his head and says, "I know, Anira. I'm sorry," which just seems to feed her energy.

She surges forward, fighting to get away, trying to claw past him back to Kay. "Please. Please. He needs me. I just want to get to Kay."

Behind her is that voice like thunder as Gawain says, "Anira, he's dead. How can he need you now?" He's emotionless and the fire inside of her flares up and she turns on him.

"Where were you? How could you let this happen? He left me! Where were you? Damn you! Damn you!" She screams until she can't breathe. She screams at him until her jaw is sore. She claws at his face and punches him. He doesn't look her in the eyes. She clings to him and cries and feels like dying. She wishes more than anything that her life had not been centered around these men destined to die. She wishes that she had anything to look forward to in the future. She wishes that the man holding her now didn't hate her and she wishes that she still had a purpose. She wishes she had something other to do right now than cry and scream.

* * *

_OK, I haven't done these notes before but this chapter has left me feeling odd. It didn't go the way I originally meant it too, so I hope you like it. If you didn't, please let me know why. I think this chapter is very important and I want to do this right._


	11. Chapter 11

11.

Bors stands on the right, Dagonet on the left and they hold her arms as the fire burns higher. Arthur had lowered the torch, said a few phrases in Latin over the wrapped corpse of her brother, and the others hold her back as the fire catches and builds. It's smart, these two men holding her back. The first clear thought she's had in days is to jump onto that burning pyre, to burn with Kay and go with him to a better place. There is nothing here for Anira now.

No one sings for Kay, or she thinks that no one dares. They are watching her for some reaction and she has no heart for singing at all. They watch for her to strike out again, as she had against Gawain and later Galahad. Poor Galahad, who had just tried to bring her some dinner but had scalding soup thrown at his tunic. Her aim had been off because at the last second, Anira had seen the little boy who used to play with Everett and she couldn't actually harm him.

But now, there is no energy in her for a violent outburst. She simply watches the fire burn away the wrappings and start work on dissolving Kay. She loses focus and stares into the flames, reaching high into the night sky. A column of smoke puffs constantly upwards, carrying off bits of ash that once were Kay and the pervading smell of cooking flesh. She will never be able to watch a pig being roasted after this. She stares for so long that she doesn't notice when Bors lets go of one of her arms or what Arthur whispers in her ear, something far kinder than she has ever given him. Dagonet lets her go in that way that is so Dagonet, faith and trust rolled together in a way that can never really be said out loud. She falls to her knees, leaning forward just a little and feeling the heat of the fire wash over her. She stares into the embers, watching them glow brighter than any cook fire she has ever made. She stares into the heart of the flame as it sears the meat off of Kay's bones.

"You should stop staring," Dagonet says. "You'll go blind."

When she looks up, it's the same sober Dagonet face. They are alone in the graveyard, the others retreating back to the fort as the cold increases. "Better blind than this," she replies, and means herself kneeling in front of the graves of all her family. "Better blind than alone. And lost. I have nothing left."

He swallows and for the first time, she can hear his sadness, as if he screamed it. But he never would. "You once called us your brothers. Bors. Lancelot. Me." The idea of Gawain is lurking under his words, like a snake in the tall grass waiting to strike and poison her.

"No." It's so easy in her mind, now that she thinks about it. Her voice is hard as flint, unrelenting. "No, I can't lose any more brothers. No." Now she swallows and wills herself to hold on before she says, "Dagonet, I'm not the same. I have nothing left and I'm not going to make you care for me. No, I'm done and there is no need for you to pretend anymore."

"Pretend?" His voice has a little bite to it, the offended response she was carefully hunting for. Any other man would sputter and yell but he says, "There's still hope. There's home. We are almost done with our service to Rome. Soon, we can go home."

When he says that, it's all the old feelings that used to make her cry as a young girl. She has never known Sarmatia. She has grown up on a strange and violent island hundreds of miles away and always felt different for it, especially to those young boys who now act as knights."This is my home," she growls at him, a queer pride in this fact making her bold. "This is the only home I've ever known and it's steeped in death and blood and I can't be a part of it. I can't be around you if all you do is kill."

Dagonet is solid as a mountain, he always has been in her mind, but he stumbles back from her, his muted expression still one of horror. "I did not choose this life," he says and his eyes are filled with tears.

Anira surges to her feet. "But you live it and I can't. Dag, I'm not as strong as you are. I'm scared of what will happen and I can't be a part of it. I'll go mad."

"Our service as knights is almost over," he nearly pleads. "We will owe Rome nothing in a few years time and then we can all have a life of peace."

She wants to spit. She wants to cry. Instead, a log on the funeral pyre snaps and it spurs her onwards. Sparks fly into the inkiness of the night and she lashes out at Dagonet. "I owe Rome nothing and they have still taken everything from me. I had nothing except my family and the mighty empire has taken that as payment for some debt that was never mine to begin with. It does not matter how many years till Rome says you can go, Dagonet, because someone will still die."

Anira cannot know that they are not alone, she is so focused on Dagonet. She does not see Bors standing on the steps carved into the hillside, coming to fetch Dagonet for a drink. She does not see Galahad with a sheaf of heather to drop on Everett's grave, stopped in the path to listen to her. She cannot hear the rustling in the grass that is Tristan smoking his pipe, always listening. Lancelot stands with Arthur at the grave without a sword, their conversation halted after hearing Anira's raised voice. She cannot see Gawain behind her, though she should feel those eyes boring into the back of her head, warning her as much as those eyes ever could. She does not see, she does not know, and so she continues.

"I refuse to wait at that gate to prepare for another funeral. Who do you think is getting slower or weaker? Who is closest to death, Dagonet? All of you are and I have felt brothers die, I have felt my heart die and I will not let it happen again. I will not watch someone I love brought through that gate over their horse rather than riding it. I cannot watch another funeral. I cannot watch you ride to your death. I cannot bear it and I will not."

She steps back. There are all of five paces between her and Dagonet but it feels like an ocean. "I am alone. All I have ever hoped to love is gone and so there is nothing left. Don't think on me, you don't have to. I'm just another woman. And you are just a knight."

Anira turns to leave and she is swimming in eyes like thunder. Gawain. And she feels nothing. That yawning hole in her heart has closed up, a jagged and ugly scar that will always bear his name. He's staring at her, almost incredulous, almost mocking. He says, "Are you really so afraid of being alone?"

She is ice, she is stone, she is nothing. Anira would have flipped back a brash remark, would have at least yelled at him. She is simply mist and smoke. She walks on by him, saying nothing. She walks past all of them, feels nothing at the hurt look in Galahad's eyes or the insult flung at her by Tristan. Bors screams in her face, little bits of spittle hitting her cheeks. She is ice, she is stone.

She curls up in her dark room alone. In the courtyard, she can hear someone throwing things and yelling. She hears the sounds of wood splintering and crockery breaking. She drifts off into sleep, her mind a void.

If she had been in the courtyard, she would have seen Bors and Dagonet sharing a tankard of wine, watching Gawain's violent progress as he hacks a bench to pieces with his axe. She would have seen the tears that quietly stream down Dagonet's face or watched as Lancelot continually tries to smile and shakes it off. She would have seen Galahad's efforts at stopping Gawain's rampage. If she had been awake, she would have heard Arthur forcibly disarm Gawain and sit him down on the flagstones. If she had been there, she would have seen Gawain's tears or heard his sobs. If she had been herself, she would have noticed that he couldn't give up on her, even after all the abuse and the wrong things said to one another. If she were Anira, she would have seen just how much he loved her.

* * *

_Longest chapter yet and perhaps the most important yet. I know this is a really depressing story so far, but things have to get worse before they can get better, right?_

_Many thanks to those that have reviewed, as you have bolstered me to actually keep on with writing this._

_If you've gotten this far, why not go just a little further and review? Please? Much appreciated._


	12. Chapter 12

12.

She is a ghost. She withdraws from all of them. Or at least, she stays out of sight. Sometimes she'll mend equipment for Jols or re-shoe one of the horses with Yorn, but she doesn't see the knights. She eats and she works till she is too tired to do anything but fall into bed. Yorn is the only person she speaks to, when she asks for something else to do. Jols can just look at her and know when she needs a new task.

Anira takes solace in working with their weapons. She helps Yorn to sharpen the swords, she tacks together their scabbards, cleans them meticulously. She spent an entire day making arrows for Tristan, hundreds tucked into rough quivers. She spends another day picking a perfect whetstone for each of them. She doesn't realize how much it will make her cry when she imagines how they will hold it, what size each of them needs. She cannot make the weapons anonymous and she realizes that each moment spent in their presence is precious and stolen and terrifying. Seeing Yorn sharpen Arthur's father's sword means that the knight commander is not far away. How could they relax when extensions of their person are in the hands of another? She sees Lancelot's double swords and finds another job to do somewhere else. She can practically feel Lancelot lurking outside the smithy. Only Bors can casually leave his weapons with someone else, his nerves used to leaving something precious in the hands of another. He has enough children to be used to the process by now.

Seeing Yorn heft Gawain's huge axe is another thing. It's actually the only time that Yorn has ever looked at her with pity on his face, when she walks in and freezes like a rabbit spotting a predator. Bile rises in her throat and she runs back to her room, retching into her fireplace. Instantly, she regrets it and covers it with ash, not looking forward to when she needs to light the fire next. She avoids the smithy all day.

Vanora refuses to let her sink into oblivion. She insists on talking to her, even when Anira will not respond. Her oldest child, a girl who Vanora calls Randa and who Bors calls One, will tell Anira of all the gossip in the fort, the little dramas that keep life going. People talk to her. People pity her. Sometimes she walks past the tavern and hears the conversation quiet as she passes. Only Bors will keep on yelling as if nothing has changed. Only Bors keeps treating her like the fixture she once was. To him, it as if nothing has changed and somehow, this is crueler than her self-imposed exile. It's as though he lives in a future where nothing has gone wrong, where her brothers still ride as his compatriots. He still treats her like the little sister he never really wanted.

It hurts the most one night when she tries to slip out with her dinner. He roars out her name and she turns around, more compulsion than actual desire. He smiles in that twisted way and says, "Come sit with us, little one."

It stings, the way that he talks to her like a small child with no wits. She shakes her head softly and turns to leave, but his footsteps are already disrupting the dust. "Nonsense," he intones, and slowly turns her back to the large new oak table recently constructed. He begins to push her towards the table, one hand under her right elbow, the other on her left shoulder. She takes a few steps without thinking about it until she sees the leer in Tristan's eyes. She plants her feet, remembers the stubborn streak buried deep inside her somewhere.

"Come now, your dinner's getting cold," Bors chides, and the tone is so subtly patronizing that she spits in his face. The action takes almost no thought and Bors looks so genuinely surprised that she almost feels joy. Then his grip on her elbow tightens to pain and she doesn't feel anything but rage. She wanted to be alone, she wanted the life away from them, and so what right does he have to pity her and try to correct the choice? As much as part of it has hurt, being a person separate from the knights has also been liberating. She isn't defined by her relation to any of them anymore. Yes, she is known as a shade, a ghost, but that is still something she has claimed for herself.

Both her hands are occupied with holding her dinner plate and her cup of wine. She drops both of them and throws a wild punch which lands on Bors' jaw. He lets go of her in surprise. She does what she has become best at and runs. She runs from her problems, runs from the people who used to be her friends and hides from the person she used to be.

She doesn't hide in the stables but sits atop the fortress wall when Arthur finds her. She has a horse blanket wrapped around her torso and her feet tucked into her skirt, seated on the wide stone wall with open air on one side and the walkway on the other. If he wanted, he could give her one good shove and send her toppling to her death, but he stands a safe distance away. She can respect him for that.

He stands there, leaning against the wall and overlooking the fort in silence for a long while. She gets used to the sound of his breathing mixed with the howling of the wind. He doesn't say anything for a good long while, but when he does speak, all of his meaning is contained so perfectly that it makes her want to weep. "Is it really easier without them?"

He doesn't say anything more. He walks away as she grasps for an answer. She doesn't know. Nothing makes sense. She knows this is not the person that she wanted to be, but can she really do more with the situation she has? She looks out into the seething darkness of Britain and feels a kinship to it. This land is confused, torn apart, soaked in loss and fighting and a love it doesn't understand. This land aches for someone to make it whole again, just as Anira aches for someone to understand her pain. No one inside the fort can understand exactly why she is a ghost. Maybe someone in the mist can help her to be whole again. But to leave makes her traitor, abandons the people that she actually does love. She does care for all of them, even Bors. She cannot leave and she cannot stay.

For the rest of the night, Arthur hears howling that he knows is not the wind or the wolves. In the early hours before sunset, he checks the wall again and sees Anira asleep and shivering in the same place he left her. One false move and she throws herself off the wall but before he can reach her to pluck her to safety, Gawain rushes forward. Almost as if out of the darkness, he pulls her from the wall and spirits her down the steps. When he passes Arthur, Gawain nods, his jaw tight. Arthur cannot know this pain, what Gawain feels, but Arthur does know that something must happen soon. If nothing happens to change this course of events, Anira will grieve herself to death and Gawain will fall apart. Arthur prays briefly that God will give them some path to follow. He prays for a purpose.

* * *

_Honestly, I am getting to the happy bits soon, cause even though this is important, it depresses me a bit. Also, the characters are taking over a little, as I intended this to be shorter._

_Many thanks to those that reviewed the last chapter. I hope you all like this._


	13. Chapter 13

13.

"Your form is off," she says, more out of habit than any real thought. She hasn't spoken to Galahad in months, but the way his arrows miss the center of the target is too painful to her.

"The bow is an extension of you," she reminds, remembering her father repeating the phrase constantly in lessons. "Like a sword, but your form is what makes the arrow fly true, not the force of your draw."

He stares at her for a moment before offering up his bow. "Show me," he says, and it isn't a challenge or a plea, just a statement. She looks at his bow and holds back a sneer. It looks so delicate next to the one she used to use, a tool long lost kindling. She holds up a finger and walks back into the stable to collect something a little more agreeable. Tristan is oiling bowstrings for storage in his saddlebags, as he goes through so many while on patrol. He does not acknowledge her. She stares at the unbent bow staves, the selection imposing after several years out of practice.

One year ago, Anira would recognize perfectly which bow belonged to which knight from the way the grip was worn to the wear on the limbs. Now, they are foreign to her, aside from Dagonet's thick longbow. That weapon is imposing and personal, like Dagonet, so using it now would be an insult. Using any of these bows would be an insult to the people she has abandoned. It hits her then that she abandoned them and that criticizing Galahad like old times was the wrong thing to do. Any of the bows that she picks now will mean something that she doesn't intend.

Tristan is watching her in that quiet way that he watches things while pretending to be absorbed in other activities. It frustrates her, as it always has, because as much as he pretends detachment, he still cares. Just in his own frustrating way. Anira thinks that she will never be able to understand Tristan. He's waiting on her choice, so she picks up the first unbent bow she sees. The grip feels slightly off, worn to fit someone else's hand and the weight is too heavy. She'd never be able to bend that bow and drawing it would be another story. Next choice is a thicker version of Galahad's bow. The shape is similar enough that it will help him to learn and when she picks it up, the weight is reassuring and familiar. There is no reaction from Tristan when he sees her choice, though he is clearly watching her now. She steals a bowstring from under his nose and returns to the yard, ignoring what could possibly be his chuckle.

In front of his haystack target, Galahad has just finished another horrible shot and is huffing like a frustrated child. In fact, exactly like he used to when they were first learning archery. She cannot help but giggle at how even now, a man grown and very handsome, to her Galahad is still a little boy. Just like when he was a boy, he sticks his tongue out at her and she shakes it off. Things may never change with Galahad.

He looks at the unstrung bow she has chosen and she can see him choose to say nothing. Shrugging it off, she uncoils the bowstring and bends the bow into the right position. Holding a bent bow in her hands sends a tingle through her system. She has always loved archery. Selecting an arrow from his quiver, she adopts the proper stance, feet shoulder width apart. He's nodding at her and she realizes then that she is reciting the archery lesson her father taught her when she was seven. She knocks the arrow and draws the string in a breath, releasing the arrow and the breath at the same time. It flies straight and true, landing in the center of the target with a most satisfying thud. There is a strain starting up in her shoulder blades, muscles becoming again used to movements that haven't been done in years. She pulls another arrow, not even looking at Galahad, and shoots without a thought. A third arrow is knocked and her fingers brush her cheek as she sights and shoots. Like making the arrows, shooting them is pleasurable monotony. She would shoot again, but she is distracted by the low whistle beside her.

Galahad is staring at her in awe. "It's so easy for you. Like breathing." The adoration in his eyes is easy to get addicted to and she shakes it off, her normal response to one of his glowing smiles.

"I guess you just never forget something once your body learns it," she replies, though at the moment, her shoulder blades are screaming at her. Still, they remember the movements, just like her feet remember how to grip the ear and her ears remember the sounds of laughing boys. She had spent so many years as one of them, learning as they did though they all had known she would never ride off to fight with them. Her fingers were not cut by the bowstring because she had developed the same calluses as the boys, her hands covered in scars from weapons practice. She had been trained from birth to be a knight, but even as good as she could be at any of the weapons, she didn't have the stomach to put all that work into practice. She could look into Galahad's eyes now and see the warrior he had become that hadn't been there when he was younger.

"You're still so young," she blurts out, studying clear blue eyes with so few wrinkles around them. He was still quicker to smile than all the rest, which he does now. He still blushes as well, which he also does now.

"But I'm one of Arthur's knights, fighting for Rome," he declares so pompously that she has to laugh. He laughs too, but then shakes it off and stares at her. He studies her and she wonders what he sees. He reaches out, rough fingers brushing a bit of soot from her cheek. "What happened, Anira? I don't understand why we can't still be friends."

His sadness chokes her, the sorrow in his voice making her want to take it all back. Instead, she tells him the truth. "Every time I look at you, I see Everett and it breaks my heart." The information soaks into him, like rainwater into the dirt courtyard, and before she can turn and run, as always seems to be her answer these days, he pulls her into a hug.

No one has held her this close since Kay died. She freezes, unsure of what to do or what he intends, but he wraps an arm around her shoulders and another around her waist. Galahad buries his head in her hair and whispers, "Every time I look at you, I think of him." His voice is so soft that it's like this thought has floated in one the wind.

It occurs to her how selfish she has been, taking the loss of her brothers as her sole personal grief. The knights have lost brothers in arms and there is no one that they can cry or scream to. They have to be strong, especially for people like her. She wraps her arms around him then, swallowing the lump of sadness in her throat. She wonders if they were completely alone if he would completely let out his grief instead of the small tears he lets fall on her hair now.

When he is ready, he lets her go. He wipes the small tears from his eyes, pretending that something else caused this reaction. With a laugh, he asks, "Is Tristan back there?"

"Yes."

"Then I won't say you're the best archer I know," he replies with a secretive wink and it makes her laugh like she hasn't in months. It's bittersweet, because she knows that it doesn't change everything, but it is a step.

She realizes that she's still holding someone else's bow and it suddenly feels too personal. She holds it out to him. "Return this to whoever I borrowed it from."

He glances down at it, and then looks warily back up at her. "Do you know whose it is?"

"From that reaction, I think I know," she whispers, knowing that she'll miss the warmth of the grip and the smoothness of the wood. She hands it over to him regretfully and wipes her hands on her skirt.

"I'll get you a new one," he says, impulsively leaping forward and grabbing her hands. "So you can practice with us, all the time, like we used to."

He's all eager eyes and big smiles. Sometimes she thinks that Galahad will never grow out of being her second little brother. "Promises, promises," she scolds playfully, shaking her head. "I'll join you when I see it."

In that moment, it feels like the clouds start to part and when she passes Tristan on his workbench, he nods to her. Things are starting to change.

_

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New chapters as soon as I get the movie DVD (which should be soon). Reviews are welcome._


	14. Chapter 14

14.

Time seems to move a little faster with Galahad around. He finds her a bow and they practice archery in the mornings with Tristan. Rather, they practice and Tristan watches or shoots by himself. They practice in the vicinity of Tristan. Galahad make her open up with his nonstop chatter to the point where Anira has come back into the society of the fort a little. She works with Vanora in the tavern, babysits her passel of children, and can talk sociably with most people again. She still doesn't eat in the common area, afraid of the people that she has hurt beyond reckoning. She agonizes at night on how to apologize to Dagonet, over what she should say when she encounters Gawain.

One morning, Lancelot joins their practice and her heart soars when he gives her one of those dark smiles and teases her. He jabs her in the side when she's making a shot and her arrow goes off behind the target. It's all so familiar and she turns on him, just like she did as a child, swearing at him and smacking him about the ears. He looks up at her through dark lashes and curly hair and smiles and then everything is ok between them again. She contemplates how it could have been so easy, but that's actually the type of person Lancelot is. Or at least, has always been to her.

Days pass, then weeks. One night, Vanora drags her to the tavern, begging for a favor. Anira is astonished to see that the men are dancing and drinking and Vanora wants to join in but there is no one to hold her youngest child. Anira takes the little boy with a smile and watches as Vanora runs off to dance with Bors, a little red-headed slip of eleven all over again.

The baby is six months old and well tempered. Vanora calls him Baz. He actually does look like a sweeter version of Bors and he spits far less than his father. She holds the baby firmly, cooing to him and making him smile and giggle. She wonders how fate has never given her a child. She's just as old as Vanora and laid with a man near as many times, but still nothing. Then it's the same old hurt as she imagines what that child would be like, and what he would be going through now with his parents fighting. It would be a boy, she knows somewhere in her heart. It lances through her, still fresh and hot after so many years. How can she ever tell him the truth? How can he ever accept her back?

The baby senses her unease, starts to wail for his mother. She coos through her tears and sings him a lullaby she used to sing to Everett. It's the first time she has sung to anyone in years. Her voice cracks and she can't remember all the words, but she sings and soon, the baby is calm. He falls asleep in her arms, snoring softly and she wonders if she will ever get hold her own child. Lost in contemplation of little features, she does not hear heavy footsteps approach.

"You should put him to bed before the music wakes him," Dagonet says and suddenly all the breath is sucked from her body. She looks up at him, afraid of whatever she is going to say that will ruin this moment.

He does not allow her to speak. "I understand. You did what you thought necessary. It's not anymore." It hits her like the first rain fall and she's crying again, soft sobs of relief. He puts a hand on her shoulder and kisses her forehead, like he used to every time before he would ride out on patrol. Relief and acceptance from almost everyone who means something. She swallows her tears and vows then and there to find a way to speak to Gawain.

* * *

_DVD in hand, other chapters should flow a little faster. Of course, actual homework will slow it down again. All the same, you will get another chapter right after this one right away._

_Many thanks to those that continue to review. I was going to save specific shout outs till the end of the story, but I did want to point out: Yes, Elven-Princess Ginny, I was aware of that, and no, I'm not going to alter the movie._

_Again, many thanks._


	15. Chapter 15

15.

There is a strange energy that morning, something crackling in the air that isn't the usual morning preparations. People are moving quicker, the fires are slightly hotter and when she gets to the training yard, Galahad is bouncing on the balls of his feet waiting for her.

None of this bodes well. Something in her is distrustful of the mood, even of Galahad with his big goofy smile. With caution, she asks, "What's going on?"

He is full of excitement, giddy that she has asked. "News from Rome. A messenger telling of a visit from a very important bishop."

Her brain is still processing the first part. "Rome?"

"Yes," he nearly shouts. "A very important man coming from Rome to see us. Well, mostly to see Arthur." His eyes twinkle, he is so filled with a happiness that she doesn't understand and he isn't even getting annoyed at her dimwittedness. Oh, that is Galahad.

Shaking her head, Anira asks, "Why would he come to see you?"

And this is what Galahad has been waiting for. "It's been fifteen years," he says slowly. "He's coming with our discharge papers. We're done. We're going home."

"Home," she repeats in a whisper, a breath of disbelief. When she meets his eyes, he is holding back tears of joy. Their service to Rome is done. Soon they will be traveling to rolling hills and living amongst their own people. "You're going home," she says to him and it makes him smile and leap and hoot with joy.

He sweeps her up into a hug and spins her around, her feet never touching the ground. "We're going home," he shouts and she has to laugh, even though something inside her is not necessarily as joyful as he is. He sets her down and doesn't see the tears at the corner of her eyes. He gives her a big sloppy kiss on the cheek and dashes out to spread his good cheer to the rest of the fort.

Wiping the tears from her eyes, she turns and sees Lancelot walking towards her. She smiles at him and he smiles back a bit awkwardly. She opens her arms to him and they hug for a moment. "I never thought this day would come," he says.

She swallows the lump in her throat and thinks of Kay and Everett who are not here to see this wonderful day. It had seemed so far away and now it is within her grasp. "Neither did I," she confides to Lancelot. And she still doesn't know how she feels about it.

* * *

_Fifteen years, fifteen chapters. I swear that it's just coincidence, but what a lovely coincidence. Chapters after this deal with things that happen from or are specifically related to the movie. There might be more of a break for the future, but never fear, I will continue._

_Please review._

_Many thanks._


	16. Chapter 16

16.

They have all been waiting for this day for as long as she can remember. They prepare their weapons and their horses early, eager to collect this Roman bishop and be discharged from service. They are getting fidgety, so eager to ride out and do this one last thing for Rome.

It makes Anira laugh. Everything is different and somehow slightly better. The pervading mist that makes up a morning in Britain is not as cold when she steps into the courtyard just after dawn. Lancelot is practicing archery and Tristan is throwing knives with… Gawain.

Lancelot greets her with, "Galahad has slept in, the lazy bones, but you can still practice with me." There is an edge to his voice, as though he hasn't slept after all the excitement.

She feels like she is thirteen again, practicing with dark eyed Sarmatian boys that make her heart skip some beats. "I'd shoot a sight better than the lot of you," she teases, but Gawain is listening and makes a rude noise.

"Prove it," he challenges and for the first time in years, her heart doesn't ache when he speaks to her. Something is different in the air. She feels like her old self, the little girl that burned when he turned those eyes like thunder her way.

It comes through in her smile, that wide teasing easy smile she hasn't known in so long. "Well, I take that back a little," she drawls and loves the way he is astonished by her change of demeanor.

"I can't throw a knife better than Tristan, or an axe better than you," she says pointedly and his astonishment is replaced by a raised eyebrow and pursed lips that mean he is holding back a smile. "I certainly can't flirt better than Lancelot," she adds with a wink to Lancelot, one that he returns lustily. "But, I can damn well shoot this bow sweet enough to make you weep."

He can tell that this is their old game. "Like I said," he replies, "Prove it."

She holds out her bow, which she has started keeping in her quarters and bringing to each morning practice, and looks to Lancelot. He obligingly offers her an arrow from his quiver and she shoots it. She is farther back from the target than usual and she is obstructed by the knights, but the arrow still lands with a satisfying thwack in the center of the target.

"You have gotten better," Tristan chuckles but she doesn't care. She's staring at Gawain, who is examining the arrow in the target.

He nods, looks up at her and says, "Can you do it again?"

With a shrug, she strides up to pull an arrow from Lancelot's quiver. She draws without a thought but does not loose when she sees that he hasn't moved and has cut the target size in half. She lets go of the tension in the string and fixes him with a glare. "Move."

"Shoot around me." His voice is unforgiving.

Nothing in the world could make her put Gawain in danger willingly, especially from her own hand. "I can't," she says simply, trying not to whine or cry.

"You can't shoot around a comrade, you'll never be fit for battle," he recites to her, from an old lesson with her father. "I trust you."

Shaking her head, she asks, "What if I hurt you?"

He just smiles back, a touch of bitterness in his voice. "Won't be the first time and won't be the last. Shoot around me, Anira." When he says that, there returns the lancing pain in her chest that has always been about him.

She looks down at her bow, at her perfect stance, at the arrow poised to fly. She looks up at him, at those eyes that have haunted her and comforted her. She looks at him and sees the twinkle in his eye. Still, she has to ask, "You trust me?"

He rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. "Just shoot the damn arrow."

In the space of a breath, she does. She wants to scream with relief when she sees him step away from the target to examine just how close her shot was to his body. Instead she sinks to the ground, her hands trembling.

In the distance, she hears the summons horn. Arthur wants to go out looking for the bishop and his train and he has summoned the knights to mount up. Lancelot and Tristan take off running, but Gawain kneels in front of her, taking her shaking hands in his. "I trust you with all I am," he whispers, pulling her to her feet.

Her bow forgotten, the hustle outside forgotten, she cautiously wraps her arms around his frame and holds on tightly. She buries her face in the crook of his neck, his beard scratching at her cheek. She would have held on forever, but he pulls back and says, "When I return, I will be a man free of Rome. Will you have me then?"

For the first time in so many years, the tears on her cheeks are from joy. "Yes," she whispers and holds him close once again.

The embrace is still too short as he pulls back apologetically. "Still need to do my job," he says with that Gawain smile that she has seen so many times in her mind over the years. He dashes off, a spring in his jog towards the stables proper and she can't help but be excited for what's to come.

* * *

_Yay, happy times! However, this is not the end of the story and it may not stay quite so happy all the way through to the end. _

_After re-watching part of the movie, I realize that my ages are a bit inaccurate for the timeline of the period before the movie to the movie's beginning. I may go back and change this later, but honestly, it's fanfiction, I'm allowed to be a little inaccurate._

_Three chapters in one day? This may never happen again... Reviews are wonderful and gratefully accepted._

_Many thanks._


	17. Chapter 17

17.

She would have met him at the gate, cleaned the grime from his face but instead, she changes her skirt and is quickly roped into helping to prepare dinner for the knights. All the usual cooks are working on food for the bishop, so her unskilled hands are left to chop and stir under very close watch. It is just after sunset when the head cook allows her to leave. She steals a roll and heads for the tavern, a bit miffed to see that the drinking has already started.

None of the knights are present actually, closed up in quarters with Arthur to receive their official discharge papers. No, the people drinking are the others that live in the fort, regular men and women who toil in the field and are protected by gallant Sarmatians. Yorn wears the biggest smile she has ever seen on the man and makes sure that Elaine will pour a big glass for Anira.

Elaine, who might have been her sister through marriage, has aged well and looks quite fit after just birthing her second child. The girl had married a farmer and seems quite happy, though she still gives Anira a sad smile when she pours her wine. All the same, the courtyard is filled with laughter and joy and soon she is laughing too. They are recounting memories of hilarious or stupid things the knight have done, fond memories. They stand and toast those that have missed this day, civilian and knight alike. Anira is the only Sarmatian in the crowd of natives or people that have been there so long that they have never known their heritage. She does not dwell on this, but haves another cup of wine. This is a night for celebrating.

All have celebrated quite well by the time the knights do pour into the courtyard, released from the meeting with Arthur and the Roman bishop. She barely has a moment to put down her cup of wine before Galahad sweeps her into a massive hug. When he puts her down, his smile is so wide that it threatens to split his face open. He turns to one of the tavern maids and literally roars, "Give me ale!"

This sends Anira into a fit of laughter as Elaine smilingly obliges. Her laughter is cut short by the arm that snakes around her waist and pulls her close to a large broad chest. Gawain's voice is a purr in her ear, whiskers tickling. "Miss me?"

She turns around, still held close and wraps her arms around his neck. "More than I can say," she whispers and leans in for the kiss she has been dreaming about.

Galahad is hooting somewhere in the background and the rest of the crowd is cheering or saying lewd and suggestive things, but she could not care any less. She is lost in the kiss, his body against hers, his tongue wrestling with hers. She cannot breathe and she does not care. Kissing him is such a relief, such exquisite joy that nothing else matters. But then she actually does have to breathe, so she breaks away, smiling her own wickedly wide grin. She makes a rude noise at Galahad who is waggling his eyebrows at her and turns back to Gawain.

He smiles crookedly, then smacks his lips. "Is that fine wine I taste on your lips?"

She can only taste the wine that he has been drinking, the fine stuff served at Arthur's table, so she shakes her head. "Just plain tavern stuff," she replies. "I can fetch you some if you like."

"Anira, fetching for me?" His feigned surprise makes her laugh. She is so quick to laugh now, when everything seems to be going as it should. She truly has missed this.

She kisses him quick. "It's a special day," she declares, a bounce in her step as she ducks off to the bar. There is something in the air, a carefree energy that makes her skin itch. Everyone is letting loose and enjoying themselves for the first time in years and as happy as she is, she's waiting for the other shoe to drop. Something bad has to be lurking around the corner. Maybe she's just been disappointed so many times that she can't accept this happiness for what it is.

But when she returns to Gawain with his cup of wine, he's almost giddy. He's laughing with Galahad about something and in her brief absence; Galahad has almost emptied his own tankard. "You'd better slow down," she tells him sternly. "I won't be your barmaid when I'm not getting paid for it."

His words are already slurred as he replies, "But I can pay you in kisses and eternal affection!" He leans towards her precariously with arms outstretched. She pushes him back and he stumbles, laughing.

"I'd rather have the coin," she retorts in her best sassy Vanora tone, which just makes him laugh harder. Anira rolls her eyes as he stumbles off towards Lancelot and looks to Gawain for his reaction.

He's studying her intently, eyes glinting in the torchlight. His lips are purse and he strokes his beard, looking every bit the part of the wise old sage. "There's something important I want to walk to you about," he says, his voice almost too soft for the massive racket that is going on. His posture is stiff seated on the wooden stool, even as she situates herself on his lap, her arms around his neck.

"Tell me later," she whispers back, knowing that nothing of real importance could go on in this hubbub. She nuzzles his cheek, enjoying being able to get so close.

He gives her a slightly sour look then says, "Just don't go flirting with any other brave knights to celebrate tonight." The bitter tone under his voice is a clear warning to stay away from Lancelot.

She has to laugh at that, a deep belly laugh she cannot contain. Lancelot is handsome but so blatantly obvious with his intentions. He's not nearly as handsome as Gawain to her eyes, never has been. Why would she spoil this now? Gawain cannot hear what she thinks and he glares at her for laughing. She kisses him deeply and he seems to forget whatever he wanted to say before or his new concerns with Lancelot. She has missed kissing him. She has missed the feel of his arms holding her close, his hands roaming her body. She missed tangling her hands in his hair and kissing him till she thinks she is going to pop. Oh, she had missed talking to the man, but her body had forgotten what it meant to be near him.

She would have kept on kissing and seeing where that lead them had Galahad not returned. He insists that he will out-drink Gawain, which does not bode well for either man, but Gawain accepts the challenge anyway. Men.

She shakes her head and climbs out of Gawain's lap, readjusting her bodice where he had unlaced it some. That cheeky devil. She ruffles Galahad's hair and he scoops her into another laughing hug.

That is how most of the time seems to pass, hugging and kissing and laughter. She touches Gawain as much as she can, his physical presence a balm to so many years of strained feelings. She works her hands under his collar and kneads the muscles of his neck. He leans back into her, smiling in calm adoration.

She watches over the drinking contest, making sure that Galahad doesn't fall from his chair or accost anyone too temperamental in his drunken ravings. The three of them tell stories of their youth, stories of wrestling matches in the haylofts and sword practice till they ached. They relive the night that Anira's father died and they drank themselves sick in the tavern at such a young age.

The two men happily throw daggers at the round wooden target for awhile, a good respite from straight drinking. Gawain is more concerned with fancy knife tricks, flipping the blade up from his foot than actually hitting the target. Of course, each missed bulls-eye makes him laugh. Galahad is actually quite good, though honestly, neither really cares.

Galahad throws perfectly once, landing dead center, but his perfection is upstaged when Tristan gets his knife to land dead in the center of Galahad's. Tristan's aim could never surprise her, even with that one in a million throw. Galahad pouts, so she leans over and gives him a quick kiss on the lips to brighten his mood. He tries to grab hold of her, amorous when drinking, but she carefully extracts herself from his grip. Galahad is unperturbed and picks up another knife to throw at the board.

"Did you see that," she asks Gawain, but he thinks it's all too amusing.

He stands from his stool, kissing her lightly on the cheek. "He really is a lover not a fighter," he says with a laugh. "You done flirting with other men then?" Gawain wedges himself behind her, seated on the table and holding her firmly about the waist.

She pretends a huff, then leans into his grip. "Forever," she says, leaning her head against his.

Suddenly, Bors is bellowing for them all to shut up and declaring that Vanora will sing. Vanora denies it, bouncing her little boy on her hip, but the crowd calls for it. Anira finds herself joining in, eager, and she stifles a laugh when Gawain calls out, "Don't drop the baby!"

And when the crowd stops calling for it, Vanora sings. She sings about home, first looking to Bors, then directing the song at the small child in her arms. Anira finds a profound sadness in that song. Her mother sang her these lullabies once long ago, a time she can barely remember. Her father told her stories of those lands, far away, of mountains she has never seen. Around her, the knights dream of this home, of what returning to it will mean. It will mean nothing for Anira. The only thing that it has ever been for Anira was the birthplace of her father, the land that gave her these men that have been brothers and friends. That land gave her Gawain, but will she lose him to it?

And in her deep thought, she misses that the song is over. She hears Jols call out Arthur's name and the knights begin to circle in on him. Gawain stands, kissing her on the cheek and untangling himself from her. "Tell Vanora she sang beautifully," he tells her. "I'll come find you after we start Arthur on some wine and a good time."

She just nods and smiles, not wanting to spoil his fun with her sour thoughts. Her heart is in her throat still, half sad from the song and half giddy beyond belief. She sees Vanora lingering in the tavern bar, downing a cup of water and still bouncing the baby on her hip. She entertains the brief fantasy of bouncing her own baby on her hip soon, a little boy with her dark hair and his father's blue eyes. It makes her smile wider. There is so much to look forward too.

* * *

_Wow, so long. This one was nerve-wracking as I needed to be accurate with that scene in the movie. See if you can spot who I have made Anira in the movie!_

_If you have any questions regarding this chapter, let me know and I will try to answer them as best as possible. Unless they relate to future chapters, then they will be answered in the future! :)_

_Please review. Many thanks to readers and those that review._


	18. Chapter 18

18.

"Beautiful as usual," she tells Vanora, who turns to her with a beatific smile that is almost contagious. Anira waggles her fingers at the baby, who giggles and reaches for her.

Vanora bounces him once then passes him to Anira with a smile. "He loves you," she points out to her old friend. "But soon you'll have one of your own to contend with, no doubt."

Anira wonders if her friend can read her mind and shakes her head. "They've only just been freed. And who's to say if I can even have a child."

"Bah," Vanora exclaims, brows furrowed. "Strong Sarmatian girl like you, don't see why not. Mayhaps fate has been waiting for the right time."

She does not answer, but hands the baby back to Vanora. Though they may have intended to get Arthur drunk, no one has called for wine. Even the other inhabitants of the tavern have quieted and when she looks to Yorn, the smile is gone from the old man's face. She looks back at Vanora, and feels the hairs prickle on the back of her neck. Vanora stares at the grouping of knights, the apprehension clear on her face.

"What could be going on," she asks, whispering like a frightened child. She is frightened. It builds up inside her like an ember catching fire to more hearty kindling. Something is wrong and she is almost frozen to this spot, staring at the back of Gawain's head like it will provide answers.

"Don't think on them," Vanora orders and Anira has to smile. After being treated for so long like a wayward child, she is still spoken to like one of Bors and Vanora's brood. Vanora directs her back to the almost forgotten topic of conversation with, "You do want to have a child, don't you?"

"Of course I do," Anira blurts out, and then feels foolish. She shakes her head, trying to rid herself of the giddy smile that seems to have taken up residence on her face. "But it's so soon yet after they've been released from service. And who's to say that he wants a child of me?" That last statement is just the tip of the nagging fear of the future that has started to grow. Now that there is no more service to Rome, the future is a terrifying thing.

Vanora wears a knowing smile when she replies, "I've never seen the man with another girl 'sides yourself. And he seems plenty happy to have you back on his arm now that all has been resolved between you."

Anira has to roll her eyes, knowing that nothing has really been resolved, that those harsh words from long ago still hang in her heart. She opens her mouth to tell Vanora this, but the redhead will not have it. "He's in the mood to celebrate," she reminds her friend with a knowing wink. "And you know well as I how men like to celebrate."

She blushes, which makes Vanora laugh. It has been a long time since she shared his bed. For a moment, her fear is pushed aside as warmth spreads through her at the thought of what tonight will hold. Gawain. Vanora laughs again, no doubt at the blissful expression that has just crossed Anira's face and Anira finds herself laughing at the thought.

Suddenly, the warmth is gone. Behind them, Bors bellows out, "I am a free man! I will choose my own fate!" A feeling of dread washes over her and she turns wide-eyed to look at the knot of men surrounding Arthur. In Vanora's arms, the baby cries out, disturbed by his father's yelling and Anira feels much the same way. Her shoulders tense up and she wants nothing but to go drag Gawain from the group, from whatever is going wrong. Because something is going wrong.

Vanora holds the baby tight but cannot stop his wailing. All pretense of conversation has stopped. Every person is now staring at Arthur and his knights and though she cannot make out all of the conversation, Anira is thoroughly spooked. She dares a glance at Vanora and sees the tight expression on the other woman's face. Vanora steps forward, stroking the baby's back and staring at Bors. Anira leans against the pole that holds up the awning over the bar, half hidden behind Vanora, half ready to run from some kind of horror.

Bors is pacing in circles like a restless dog, but the others are planted firm. Their voices are raised, but not loud enough to carry all of the words to her ears. Still, the picture is plain enough. They are all quietly agitated, except perhaps Tristan, who is still munching away on an apple.

Tristan leans in and mutters something to the group, which sets off Galahad. "If you're so eager to die, you can die right now!" Galahad is angrier than she has ever heard him. "I've got something to live for!"

She is frozen to the spot now, unable to reach out to any of them. Dagonet does not raise his voice, but his voice rings out like a summons horn. "The Romans have broken their word. We have the word of Arthur. That is good enough. I'll prepare." Prepare for what? Cold fills her veins. Dagonet walks towards the weapons garrison, not looking at anyone, though she wishes he would look at her for a second. Instead, he stops and turns to his friend, asking, "Bors, are you coming?"

The emotion in Bors' voice could knock her to the ground. "Of course I'm coming!" He is red-faced and still stalking, but there are tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. "Can't let you go on your own, you'd all get killed. I'm just saying what you're all thinking!" The lump in her throat could choke her now, and though she wants to move, nothing on this earth can quite make her. Dagonet is preparing for battle, Bors believes that everyone will die if he doesn't come along. What could they be facing? Why now? Questions swirl and blur in her mind and her head aches with a chill that has just set it. Everything was so good.

The breaking of crockery snaps her out of her haze. Galahad is stalking out of the tavern, avoiding Gawain's eyes. Gawain. When her visions snaps onto him, he looks almost hurt, his expression a little more than thoughtful. Gawain's furrowed brow makes her move forward, the troubled look in his eyes makes her wrap her arms about his waist. He resists for a moment, then leans into her, breathing in the smell of her hair. When he pulls back, he leads them to their former seats, pulling her onto his lap without really considering it. He is going through the motions, draining the fresh cup of wine that Elaine sets in front of him. The others at the table, a field hand and his lady friend, try to strike up a conversation but Gawain does not reply. He merely drinks, his arm wrapped firmly around her waist, almost crushing her to him.

After an hour, she refuses to let Elaine refill his cup. She stands, and drags him away from the table. He moves, but slowly, not drunk but not compliant. She drags him far from the hustle and bustle of the tavern but he does not say anything. His silence is terrifying and infuriating. Somehow, she gets him all the way to his room before he really pays attention. Even then, she has to smack him lightly on the cheek to get his eyes to properly focus onto hers.

She holds his face gently between her hands, her fingers shaking, and demands, "Tell me what is going on."

He kisses her then, a kiss full of desperation and fear that she didn't know he was feeling and when they come up for air, he is shaking too. He sits her down on his bed and tells her everything. His voice is steady, its lovely pitch almost soothing, if not for the horror of the words that he actually speaks. And when he finishes, she is crying softly, holding onto him tightly, and praying to the night that everything will turn out alright.

* * *

_God, that one was a toughy... That scene was perhaps the hardest to deal with for me._

_Thanks to those that have reviewed. Thanks to those that read. Thanks to those that will review in the future._


	19. Chapter 19

19.

Somehow, the night is endless and all too short. She wakes up, all languid energy and bliss, wrapped in Gawain's arms. Her cheek against his bare chest, she stifles a giggle and is surprised when he plants a kiss on her forehead.

"Didn't know you were awake," she mumbles, though she should have known better after the way he tightened their embrace.

His voice rumbles through his chest and she is enveloped in it as he replies, "Waking just before dawn is an old habit." He kisses her forehead again, then tilts her face upwards toward his. "Besides, wanted as much time as possible this morning."

All at once, it rushes back to her. Roman family north of the wall. Invading Saxons. Gawain leaves today. And… Like a shadow in her mind, there is a thought that cannot even be conceived of because her mind cannot comprehend it. She will simply die. He must see the terror in her eyes, for her pulls her up and kisses her, a kiss full of promise.

Anira untangles her arms from under the sheets and throws them around his neck, the action making her roll on top of him on the bed. It can't be comfortable but he definitely does not seem to mind when he claims her mouth for a kiss, this time full of a different kind of promise.

She wants to beg him not to go, but it would be the most ridiculous thing she has ever said. She cannot ask him to abandon the other knights and the others will go because Arthur has asked it of them. If she makes Gawain a deserter, only Galahad would stay behind and could she really put him in that position? No, better to send them off with a chance of survival than make them criminals in the eyes of vicious Rome. The very idea of Rome makes her want to spit and curse, which she might just do if she encounters that Roman bishop around the fort.

Her mind has been wandering and Gawain calls it back, kneading the flesh of her backside with a large well-scarred hand. It makes her shiver, which simply seems to spur him onwards, his other hand cupping the back of her head and holding her into his ferocious kiss. He is definitely awake now. She smiles against his lips, thinking how much she has missed waking up like this. Any other time, Gawain might have asked her the reason for her smile, for her delay, but he is so determined at this moment that it is thrilling.

They had made love last night, slow and quiet. Anira had spent an age discovering the new scars that peppered his skin, long knife wounds or shallow arrow marks. She loves his scars, something she has never told him, though he must know how she loves to run the pad of her thumb across the cross-shaped scar on his forehead. He does the same to the scratch up her thigh, the one he had bound so long ago, and his hand there can still make her burn as it did before. Time seemed to stand still as she undressed, even his impatient fingers not helping the process along. Both of them had been wearing too many clothes, had been so nervous, had felt the dark cloud overhead of the next day's promise.

But now it was the next day and Gawain was treating it like any other morning that he had awoken with Anira in his bed. It exhilarates her, thinking that this could be any other morning. For a short while, she puts asides thoughts of doom and focuses on the very insistent man beneath her.

* * *

_Originally, this was going to be far more doom and gloom, but apparently, Gawain really wanted morning sex!_

_I never intended this story to get above T, so probably no smut here folks (sorry) although if people would like to see it, I can do a separate fic. If not, you can all just imagine._

_Many thanks._


	20. Chapter 20

20.

They dress, giggling like children. He keeps pinching her shoulders as she laces her bodice and she shivers each time. It takes him so long to dress, layers and layers that will keep him warm in the northern mountains. She wishes she could be one of those layers, close to his heart.

They walk to the stables, hands interlocked, and half a skip in her step. Jols meets them at the door, looking relieved. "Good," he says in a huff. "I was looking for you and I didn't want to have to go knocking on doors." Anira's blush is fast and hot as wildfire, but Jols doesn't seem to notice. With a squeeze to her hand in brief farewell, Gawain peels away to prepare his weaponry. Already, Tristan and Dagonet are polishing, re-wrapping, and sharpening anything they think they might need. She will wring a proper goodbye from Gawain later. From all of them.

For now, she turns to Jols, who is almost too serious for her good mood. "I'll need you to look after the horses we leave behind, since Arthur's said I'm to come along," he tells her, and after everything that has happened in the last day, it feels like a bee sting. Certainly, Jols in potential danger is an upsetting new development, but it cannot compare really. But this is dedicated fantastic Jols, who knows every horse and every weapon that a knight may need or want. She can see that Jols seems to be taking it the same way, nervous but understanding. It lifts her heart a little, knowing that Jols will be there to make things a little less awful.

"I'm taking Steady with me, as a pack horse," he announces, pointing to the big chestnut gelding, placidly chewing at his feed. "And I'll have Pathseeker as my mount, but we're also taking Orkney and Rockall as spare mounts." He points to each horse as he names them, though she doesn't need the help to remember them. Pathseeker is the calm pale brown mare flicking her ears back and forth, watching Jols. Orkney is the shaggy black gelding that Dagonet sometimes rides and Rockall the sleeker black stallion that sired him. She knows each of them like she knows the wrinkles in her hands, part of her and wonderful. Far from her father's home, she was still never allowed to forget that she was Sarmatian and that they were horse-people.

She is not quite as focused on Jols anymore, though he is still talking, about schedules and feed and stall-mucking. She knows all of these things, has heard them a thousand times since birth, but he is talking for the order of having it said. His talking soothes the horses.

They need it, especially when she wanders to the larger area of the stable and sees Galahad riding his stallion Drift in a circle. The horse is more calm than the rider, taking the swift jerks on the reins like everyday guidance, Galahad's face clouded and his body tense. He gives her a cursory glance, but keeps riding, focused on the pounded path of his circle in the dirt floor.

The other horses can tell that something is happening. Beautiful clever creatures, they can feel Galahad's anger and the anxiety that the other knights feel as well. Each mount is as much a part of his knight as the weapons he carries, their personalities a wonderful complement to already wonderful men. She can't look at them, these horses that might soon ride back bearing simply a body rather than a living man.

She looks at the ones that will be left behind. These are bred war-horses, though they might have never seen a moment of battle. They number half a dozen, offspring of earlier knights' mounts and she remembers them less than the others, like cousins from far away.

Jols calls her name, and her vision snaps back on him. "Arthur says you should choose one," he says, gesturing to the cousin horses. "You'll need a horse to call your own when you head back, and it seems a crime you've never had one before."

She shrugs, but she inwardly she agrees. After Fury died, there was a hole in her heart that could only be filled with a horse, a quiet absence that has always been a part of her. She walks along the stall doors, ignoring hooves pounding, hand outstretched towards wary noses.

Each of the horses sniffs at her hand, watching her. Three mares, two geldings, and one stallion. She walks along the line, over and over again, like Galahad, retreading the path until something strikes her. Two black, two sorrel, one dun, and one grey. Well, the grey is actually a blue roan, her eyes playing a trick on her. She stops in front of the stall, leaning into it, hand outstretched towards that large blue grey face.

He's not as big as Fury, but she knows that her brain is flawed slightly for comparing every horse to that giant. Of course, she would pick the only stallion of the lot, loving that thick neck for that reminds her of Fury. Will she forever compare horses to her father's? The stallion walks towards her, butting her hand with his nose. Anira rubs his velvety nose, under his chin, along that thick neck. He puts his head over the stall door, almost over her shoulder, like an embrace. She winds her arms as much as she can around that neck, stroking a silky mane, and decides that she wants this large horse the color of light in the hours before sunrise.

"Hello you," she whispers to him, and he whickers back at her, his own hello. She turns to Jols, half hidden by the stallion's head and says, "Oh, can I have him?"'

Jols smiles at her, a rueful smile he used to give her when she was younger. "You might want to change his name."

"Why? What have you been calling him?" She can't seem to pull away from the stallion, excitement filling her at the prospect of riding.

"Orphan," Jols says.

"Oh, but then I must have him," Anira says with a smile, backing away and blowing at his nose. He makes a whuffing noise at her, then backs back into his stable. "We have to stick together. We'll protect each other."

* * *

_Am I putting off writing the farewell? Yes, clearly. Why talk about the horses here? Well, I wanted to talk about Orphan and also, it just happened._

_Guess nobody wanted any smut, which is fine. Here's to hoping that the next chapters get back on schedule._

_Many thanks to those that read and those that review. Extra thanks to both._


	21. Chapter 21

21.

She strokes Orphan and pretends not to care when Arthur enters the stables. She pretends not to listen when the bishop imposes another condition on the nearly impossible journey. She doesn't have to look at the Roman bishop to know that he is a self important and pathetic figure. She feels like if she did look at him, she would not be able to hold back the urge to beat in that smile of his. She dares to look at the steward because she wants to see this potential troublemaker. He's a little weasel of a man who keeps glancing nervously at the knights like they may soon give him forgiveness for being a burden on their hardest quest. The steward is lost in the stables, has nothing to do to prepare for the journey. He catches her gaze, stiffens, and opens his mouth to berate her but is startled by the entrance of Galahad.

Like a storm, he sweeps in collecting his personal weapons from Jols. He puts the weapons in his belt, starts the process of turning a passionate young man into a hardened soldier. He finishes too quickly, looks around lost for a moment till he sees her. They stare at each other longer than Anira can stand, so she rushes to him, holds him tight. For a moment that breaks her heart, she hallucinates that she's holding Everett, just like she did before he rode off to die. She knows that this might be the last such hug she gives to Galahad so she squeezes him tighter. She lets go when she needs to take a breath and as he lets go too, he kisses her on the cheek. It's so sweet, his shyness, how he dares to kiss her.

"Fifteen years," he says with a swallow.

"You'll do fine," she replies and as fast as she says it, it's the first time she believes it. She truly believes that they will all come back alive because she needs to believe it to be standing there. She needs it to be true more than anything else.

Galahad moves back to his horse, soothes and strokes Drift as Jols leads the other horses to their waiting riders. Bors gives her a little nudge as he passes, spits in the dirt at her feet. All the things she could say to him stay in her head as he continues past. Like always, Dagonet is close behind Bors. He stops in front of her, places his hands on her shoulders. The old familiar gesture, the old familiar Dagonet. He kisses her forehead and there is a moment where his lips linger, making the kiss a touch with more than brotherly affection. But when her eyes meet his, there is nothing she can say. A life with Dagonet flashes in her mind, opportunities where the kisses stolen are his and the fight at Kay's grave is more painful. She thinks of all that her life could have been and shakes her head. Life has brought her here, based on her choices and she can't change that. She wouldn't want to change it.

Staring at Dagonet, she thinks about his choices, the path that has led him here. If her choices have brought her here, than so have his. How can she say anything that will help any of them?

Tristan does not stop to say anything to her, just gets on his fine gelding and gives her a nod. She nods back. Maybe she doesn't need to say anything.

Lancelot has much the same reaction as Tristan initially, striding past her like she isn't there. Then he stops and turns back, giving her a curious look. In a wild dramatic gesture, he sweeps her up and kisses her full on the lips. Other women might find the gesture wonderfully romantic, but it just makes Anira rather annoyed. She smacks him about the head, their lips still pressed together until he lets her go with a laugh. Lancelot turns that twinkling smile towards Gawain, who has a queer expression on his face. Her lover should look more angry, but he just smiles after Anira gives Lancelot a parting slap. Trust Lancelot to turn all of this into some strange joke. She just wishes she got which part of this was funny.

There is a clink of armor behind her and process of elimination mean that it must be the knight commander. "I will take care of them, Anira," he says in his most serious voice and she has to repress the laugh that bubbles up inside her.

"I know you will," she replies, wanting to comfort him but they've never been close. All the same, she pats him on the arm with a little grin. He's a decent man, this Roman. He leaves with the same grim look as always and she wishes that she could say more to comfort him, but then it's Gawain who is standing in front of her.

In front of him all her bravery is gone and she just wants to hold him and cry. "I will never forgive you if you die," she mutters and he's the one that latches onto her.

"I've got something to come back for," he whispers in her ear. It should make her heart soar but she wants to scream instead. She's this useless bundle of emotions when she should be reassuring him.

All she can say it, "Please come back."

He strokes her hair and kisses her cheeks before he lets her go. "I don't want to leave you," he admits softly. "I wish I could take you with me."

Anira snorts. "Arthur wouldn't allow it," she points out. "No Roman would allow me to ride into battle."

"No, actually," he says with a wry smile. "I wouldn't let you. I'd be too worried about you now that I think about it. You'll be safer here."

"And unhappier," she whispers, gripping the edges of his breastplate. "I wish you didn't have to go."

She loves his whisper when he says, "Me too." He does not kiss her, just moves off to his horse. The others are waiting, watching her and she does not want to seem weak. Or at least as weak as she has been in the past. She can be strong, even if he does not kiss her right now.

Before he mounts his horse though, he stops and runs back to her. Gawain seizes her face and kisses her soundly, every inch of her tingling Her head is spinning and when he pulls away, Anira is so filled with joy that she barely hears him say, "Marry me."

He kisses her again and she clings to him like he is the only solid thing on this earth. The words don't register, what he has said, and the whole world is condensed down to his hands holding her close, to her hands holding him here. When he tilts her face towards his, she sees the question there, the words that finally sink into her mind. It steals the breath from her lungs but when the shadow of doubt flicks across his face, she blurts out her heart's desire: "Yes."

She kisses him again, ecstatic, but then it all comes back to her and she has to shoo him to his waiting comrades. He will come back because he has to come back to marry her. Nothing will keep him away, not when he loves her. Not when he wants to marry her. When Gawain wants to marry her, this cannot be the saddest day of her life.

* * *

_Oh goodness, I had this one forever. I'm sorry for the long delay, just sometimes a story gets away from you and it's hard to catch it. _

_Reviews are welcome. Thank you for all the past reviews and for continuing to read._


	22. Chapter 22

22.

Anira doesn't want to watch that line of horsemen swing north, so she doesn't go up to the wall with Vanora and the pack of children. She sits at the base of the wall, cleaning the dirt out from under her fingernails, trying to think of anything but the danger in the north. Woads, icy roads, needle rain, landslides: all the things that will haunt her dreams tonight.

Right now however, she has half a dozen little girls tugging at her skirt to occupy her afternoon. Vanora is smiling beatifically at her, the baby on her hip, and Anira is supremely jealous. She picks up the smallest girl, an angel of three, and says, "I want a baby."

"Someday soon," Vanora announces. "Someday, you'll have a whole regiment like me and you'll be so happy. And so very very tired." But then Vanora stops smiling and Anira feels like a horrible burden to the mother of eleven.

"It'll be ok," she tells her friend, though she doesn't believe it very well. "I'm going to clean that stable till it shines and I'll see what Yorn needs of me. Maybe I'll teach your girls to shoot a bow." The little girls cheer and dance, but it's Randa that looks to her mother with hopeful eyes. The look on Vanora's face could curdle milk so Anira hedges quickly by adding, "Assuming you all have done your chores."

She has never seen those children run so fast, with even the little girl in her arms squirming for freedom. She sets her down and watches as the little one toddles off after her siblings. Afraid for the little girl being on her own, Anira is relieved to see a six year old boy, Tedor, slow down and take his sister's hand. The moment is so beautiful that she keenly misses her own older brother looking at it. She wonders, not for the first time, what kind of life Kay would have if he were still around. She fantasizes that his children are running off with Vanora's lot, that she's a treasured member of a large thriving family.

It's a familiar daydream that she shakes off with ease when she turns to Vanora. "Sorry, didn't mean to promise that if it would make you mad."

Her friend gives her a good smack on the shoulder before shrugging. "Randa's been begging for a try ever since she saw you walking 'round with your bow. Might be good for her. Maybe you could teach her a few tricks to stop some over amorous soldier too."

"Never had any soldiers after me cause I always had too many brothers," Anira blurts out and it takes her a moment to realize how very special that makes her. Other girls didn't have the protection of a bunch of Sarmatian knights to safeguard their honor. Even before she and Dagonet had their little roll in the hay, no other man had ever really expressed an interest in her. The soldiers didn't try to unlace her bodice or flip up her skirts and Anira had never really thought anything of it. When interest did present itself, it was all from Gawain and she had been too happy to notice if she had left anyone disappointed.

Vanora breaks her contemplation by dragging her towards the tavern. "Come on, we've got to fix dinner for my brats. You can daydream things to teach my daughters whilst chopping potatoes." Anira can only feel grateful that she has such a caring friend who will distract her from her own mind with hard labor.


	23. Chapter 23

23.

The weather is unaccountably beautiful, especially considering the time of year. Only the children take it as a blessing, splashing in the muddy puddles from the rain four days past. The adults, including Anira, grumble about the unnecessary sunshine and wait for the other shoe to drop.

Yorn calls it the calm before the storm and it makes Anira worry. What does this beautiful weather at the wall mean for the knights heading ever northwards? Not that Yorn has really given her a chance to worry. After the Sarmatians rode off, the blacksmith decided to start fashioning a hand and a half sword, though for who he still refused to tell her.

"Stop pestering me if you're not going to work the bellows at the same time," he says, knowing that working the bellows properly would not leave Anira any real breath to ask questions.

Despite the enforced silence, Yorn is good company. He takes his meals with her at night, does not cluck over her like some attempt at being her father, and he appreciates her unique knowledge of weaponry. "You're a rare breed, Anira," he once told her after she gave the forge a good cleaning.

She likes this work, as a kind of apprentice to the old blacksmith. She loves the heat of the forge, the pounding of Yorn's hammer on the anvil. Even though she sits down to eat covered in soot and her skirts have developed little burn holes, she appreciates the experience. The only thing she hates is how much she sweats. She hates sweating through every layer of clothing she wears. She hates that her chemise is always soaking wet when she finishes a session at the bellows. Unless she runs back up to her room to wring out the sweat, it will chill her for the rest of the day. She stuffs a bundle of lavender weed into her bodice at night so she smells less like sweat and soot. Not that she has anyone to impress with Gawain gone, but the smell is not appealing to her own nose.

When she isn't working for Yorn, she's practicing her archery or getting to know her horse. Orphan is a stubborn horse with a hard mouth, but he somehow listens to her and seems to know her moods. When they ride, she feels free.

Days assume a pattern that leaves Anira exhausted. She has been striving her whole life for such a pattern because it means comfort, or at least that's what she has been led to believe. She tires herself out so that she does not have nightmares. Yorn makes her work so that she has no time to worry. Vanora's children make her laugh until her sides hurt and make her forget when she was the loneliest woman in the whole of Hadrian's wall. Sometimes, she gets lost in the action of drawing an arrow, setting it to her bowstring, and letting it loose with perfect precision.

Anira has no time to think on anything but the forge, the horse, the bow, and the children. So when the skies turn dark one day, she does not worry about ill omens, merely thinks that the rain will keep the forge cooler while they work.

* * *

_Wow, two __chapters in one update. Yikes. Well, it's just been bugging me that I have not finished this story and I have a clear idea of how it's supposed to end. My goal is to be done before September and I start my new job._

_Again, sorry for the long delay. You know how life gets. _

_Reviews are welcome. _


	24. Chapter 24

24.

She dreams of horses these nights. Never have her dreams been so vivid as when she dreams of the huge herds that thunder through her dreams. Thousands of horses in a multitude of colors, running across rolling hills and through thick fog. They seem to run forever. She wakes before dawn, taking Orphan out for a long ride in the morning mist. She lets him decide where they go and at what pace, clinging to his mane. Riding with so little control reminds her of her first riding lessons with her father. There was little so terrifying as being put atop a massive horse alone and trusting this unknown creature with her fate. But she learned early to trust the horse underneath her until riding was easy as breathing.

Anira spends more time in the stables as the days pass with no signs of the Sarmatian knights' return. The horses left behind get restless without regular visitors so she tries to fill that role. She calms them just by being there, walking calmly by each of their stalls. She briefly considers moving into one of the empty stalls so that they are not restless in the night, but her room still has the faintest smell of Gawain. In the moment when she stops dreaming of horses, she smells Gawain and entertains the briefest dream that he is next to her. It's a most pleasant delusion.

One morning though, the pounding of hooves does not stop as she comes awake. She is dimly aware that the Roman soldiers do not ride in the middle of the morning and it takes her several moments to realize the full implication of this thought. She dresses hastily, forgoing stocking and tying the laces to her boots sloppily. She would run out in her nightdress and barefoot if she could, but decency makes her dress, though she fumbles most of it. She runs for the courtyard where they will dismount, where Gawain will be looking for her. She runs faster than she thinks possible, avoiding people when she can and plowing into those people that she cannot. Her boots hitting the dirt sound like the pounding of hooves. She sees Vanora shepherding her children to meet their father and Anira know she should slow down to help. Except she remembers the horse coming back without a rider and the blood soaking into her skirt and the men she's buried. It makes her run faster.

When she arrives, everything is a blur. She sees a wagon, riders dismounting, and that smug bastard of a Roman bishop greeting everyone with open arms and a smile. No one is smiling back at him. She looks around, her eyes focusing on no one in particular and simply seeing tired men. She hears a woman cry out "Lucan!" and sees a boy run up to a horse not carrying a rider. It bears a body, wrapped in a horse blanket. Anira watches the boy Lucan pull a ring from the corpse's hand. There is a sad desperate sickness that rises up in her and she scans the assembled knights. Her eyes meet Gawain's and she knows that she should be happy that it isn't him wrapped up in the blanket. But she can't be happy when Dagonet is dead. She feels cold and sick and the tears are there before she can do anything to stop them. Gawain says something to her but she doesn't hear it, only sees him walk away after Galahad. Everyone is eerily quiet. It is one of the truest tributes to Dagonet that life carries on, slowly and sadly as it might be now that he is gone.

It doesn't feel real. She feels cold, looking at the hastily wrapped corpse on the horse's back. Orkney is dripping with sweat from the long hard run back to the fort. She wants to relieve him of his burden but she can't imagine handling the body. She just stares at the horse, lost until Jols steps forward and takes the reins in hand. He does not look at her and she does not say anything but he stands there, just lending his presence for a moment. When he leaves, he brushes her with his shoulder and it sends a shock through her. She had always carried the fear of these moments but she had never believed for a single moment that Dagonet would die. Never in her history of loss had she ever thought she would lose him.

For a moment, she thinks of all of them, all her family and friends that wander dead among the mists of this land. The weight of all of them leaves her shivering and she wanders, not wanting to see anyone at this moment. She wanders and she is not really surprised to find where her feet have brought her. It is a long walk and the guards say nothing to her, a familiar face walking a familiar path. These Romans are used to this guard duty, used to the people who leave through this gate, and honestly not the worst sort. They close the gate behind her and she walks into the graveyard, alone in the mist. She is as much at home among these piles of bone and dirt as she is in her own rooms. Where they rest is home, sad as that might be. So many nights, she has found comfort out among these graves because just being near to her loved ones, even dead, has helped her to feel loved.

The grassy space between Kay's grave and Everett's has been her sleeping place for uncountable nights. Her brothers and her father had been burned and the bones buried, a mix of traditions from their place of ancestry and their home. Dirt had been heaped over the small pile of bones, like when Anira would hide under heaps of hay in the stables when she was young. They were smaller than the Roman graves and when the grass grew tall, she felt like a little girl again. One summer day, she had watched the sun trace it's course across the sky from the space between her two brother's graves. Her face had burned like bread left in the oven too long and she had been sick for days later, but she had so loved the illusion of the moment.

For the first time in a long time, she extends her view past the resting space of her family. Some are before her time, warriors of decades past. Other knights, sweet faced boys and kind men, come back to her in a flood and she weeps silently. Lionel. Safir. Bedivere. Mordred. Percival. Good men who helped raise her and taught her well. Lost now but their memories fill her with joy, remind her of so many good times. Lionel had taught her how to fight with her fists, Safir with a knife. Bedivere had been as good as a father to her after the loss of her own, forcing her to be her very best at weapon's practice. Beautiful Mordred had been her first kiss and Percival had kept her laughing. Where they rest was where she belonged, where one day they would lay her in the ground beside them.

Vanora might sings songs of home, but to Anira, there was nothing but this wild and deadly land. The cold of the evening begins to set in as the thought settles around her: This is home. This is where she belongs. She cannot leave Britain. So now how can she tell the love of her life that she will not be going with him?


End file.
